


sad requests. || mcyt.

by i_am_damaged



Category: mcyt
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anorexia, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Depression, Sad Ending, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27113408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_am_damaged/pseuds/i_am_damaged
Summary: Oneshot request book. Currently open. Will try to do every request. (If you're not comfortable, you can comment as guest, it's alright.)No shipping; for projection and coping.Deals with mature topics. Please read tags.
Comments: 156
Kudos: 346





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This book isn't for fun. It's for projecting into people.
> 
> Absolutely no shipping; everything, if anything, will be family/friend dynamics.
> 
> You can hate me if you want, but I just want a goddamn fanfic. about this shit.
> 
> This isn't a book for people wanting to get their life straight. If you need actual help, go look for it. This is only temporary. In the end, this won't change much, but I've always needed a book for this.
> 
> I will be accepting:  
> • suicide/suicide attempt. (and all variations of the topic.)  
> • terrible coping systems; self-harm.  
> • rape recovery.  
> • gore.  
> • variations of mental disorders.  
> • a little bit of fluff; a happy ending, if you need it.

**Please comment if you need it.**

How to get to guest mode:  
Open up incognito browser/tab.  
Find ArchiveOfOurOwn/AO3.  
Search up "sad requests mcyt": you'll probably see mine.  
Click on comments.  
Type.

**Requests:  
** \- Technoblade struggling with his ADHD. (Completed.)  
\- Tommy's violent intrusive thoughts. (Completed.)  
\- Technoblade; social anxiety, self-harm and depression from a past toxic relationship. (Completed.)  
\- Tommy; suicide, rape-victim and the aftermath.  
\- Technoblade angst; self-esteem issues, unhealthy sleep patterns.  
\- Technoblade overhearing people thinking him as a tool.  
\- Tommy; suicide attempt as well as self-harm (burning), happy ending; protective brothers.  
\- Tubbo; self-harm, self-esteem issues, intrusive thoughts of suicide, bad sleeping habits.  
\- Tommy overworking himself trying to get validation from others around him.  
\- George; past sexual assault; self-harming and suicidal thoughts.  
\- Technoblade sickfic. because of stress and overworking.  
\- Dream and Tubbo siblings; Dream gets hurt, Tubbo helps.  
\- Tubbo in the aftermath of Tommy's suicide.  
\- Wilbur; intrusive thoughts about self-destructive panic attack: being comforted by Techno and Tommy.  
\- Tubbo angst; gets heavily injured by a herd of mobs, falls into a river and almost drowns before being saved.  
\- Wilbur; dealing with anorexia and bulimia.  
\- Purpled; emotional numbness and comfort.  
\- Technoblade and Dream on different sides in a war.  
\- Dream dealing with self-harm and self-doubt  
\- Tubbo--having enough of being used by everyone.  
\- Tommy--being socially closed off, touch-starved; someone discovering it.  
\- Wilbur; depersonalisation/dissociation.  
\- Tommy--being bullied, protective brothers Wilbur and Techno.  
\- Tommy; self-abuse/self-harm mechanisms.  
\- Tubbo; anorexia.  
\- Technoblade and Tubbo; Tubbo comforts him, Techno unable to injure him; happy ending.  
\- Wilbur; sensory issues and overload.  
\- Tommy and Tubbo; touch starvation and touch aversion.  
\- Dream; near suicide-attempt(s), backing out.  
\- Technoblade; paranoia about his friends.  
\- Sapnap; anorexia, someone finds out.  
\- Tommy and Tubbo; finding comfort with each other.  
\- Tommy; not hiding his self-harm scars.  
\- Tommy; binge eating to cope.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade struggling with his ADHD.
> 
> Requested by: guest.

"--echno--"  
"--ade--"

His mind was foggy.

He couldn't concentrate on anything.

Everything sounded like it was underwater, blurred and _dim--_ but too _loud_ at the same time--

It was confusing him.

"Technoblade."

"Wilbur," he automatically responded, looking up.

The taller man seemed half-worried-and-half-annoyed-but-mostly-annoyed. (Was there a word for it? He was sure that there was, he had seen that expression quite a few times before. What was it again? He couldn't bring himself to try and remember.)

"Are you even paying attention?"

"No, not really." Honesty. It's the right thing to do, right?

Wilbur let out an irritating sigh-- _fuck, why was everything so loud_ \--and scrubbed his face with his hands. He notices that there's dark bags under the other's eyes, and there's a minute trembling to his hands; a combination of something like insomnia and stress and paranoia.

"Technoblade, just--just _listen_."

(But it's impossible? How is he supposed to?)

"Okay."

(He guesses that he's lying now.)

"So, I was thinking that..."

His eyes wander to his own hands. (He swears he can see stains of red.) He wonders what he's doing with his life, _listening_ without doing _moving_ _._ It was annoying; they would promise action and _bloodshed_ but all they did was sit around and panic like prey. But he wasn't prey? Why were they just lazing around? It was time to _do_ something, but they never did. Panicking and promising and talking and--

"--onestly, did you even take your fucking medicine?"

Then there was a flare of bright red anger, disgustingly sharp and clear, contrasting with the dullness of the world.

"Does it matter?" he says instead of shouting like he wants to. (He's always holding back, always keeping himself calm and composed, because that's what he's supposed to do, because no one would understand if he snaps and snarls and shouts and--) His head was throbbing, and he could feel the thumping of his heart over the stillness. He couldn't concentrate, couldn't get out what he wanted to say, couldn't scream what he wanted to say.

"You don't get to order me around, _Wilbur._ " He could already hear his own voice, dull and fuzzy in the static world. He adds pressure to the name, and there's something unresolved behind that name. He could feel the anger surging into a tidal wave, and there's something ugly controlling him when he starts to break apart. When he starts to splinter and crack and--

"Wilbur, you've never actually cared, did you?" he asks-- _accuses--_ and his voice is slowly raising. "You just care about your own skin--and you always--never listened to _me,_ and you would only--"

He doesn't hear what happens next, but he's aware that his throat is starting to hurt, and there's red bleeding into his vision. It's all unravelling, and it feels _satisfying._ There was something terrifying that was always waiting, waiting for an opportunity, and it came rushing out like a river.

He vaguely feels someone grab his arm, tugging harshly. He twists around, summoning his sword and pointing it towards the shadow, heart thudding rapidly and blood rushing in his ears.

And it all freezes.

Tommy was staring at him, wide-eyed. There was something like-- _terror_ in those blue eyes. (But that's not right. Why would he be scared of him? He had always made sure to keep his battered shell up, a unbothered facade and emotionless tone--)

Wilbur was stiff, tears dripping down his face, with an unexplainable expression (half-fear-and-half-anger-and-something-else) and there was silence echoing through the ravine.

He breathes.

And it was time to collect the shards again. It was time to pick them up and piece himself together. It was time to hide it again, time to stifle the loud-angry-scared under a bruised wall again. With medicine, with isolation, with _breathing._

Technoblade breathes.

He shoves the hand off of him (Tommy flinches, and there was a mixture of annoyance-worry-regret flash through him.) and he starts walking.

"I'm going," he says, to answer the unspoken question.

"W-Will you be coming back?" Tommy asks, a thin, fake layer of bravery and stubbornness masking his toxic fear.

Technoblade looks at them.

"I don't know."

Honesty.

And he leaves without looking back, without looking back to his brothers.

There's something _in_ him--a bloodthirsty _monster_ \--and he needs to quench it's thirst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried my best, but since it could be different for certain people, I'm sorry if I messed it up a little.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy's violent intrusive thoughts.
> 
> Requested by: guest.

_I could kill them. (It would be so easy!)_

It wasn't anything particularly new.

_He trusts me--it would be so easy to slice his throat, he wouldn't be able to make a sound, he would drown in his own blood, it would be quick--_

It was getting tiring. Because no matter what he said, it didn't matter--it was _himself_ he was up against. It would've been easier to have someone that was able to be taken down, but how does he fight against his own self?

_Sweet, innocent, naiive Tubbo--could just ask for him to jump off a bridge, he would listen--the crunch of bones hitting the floor, the splatter of blood on the black concerete--_

But--Tubbo wasn't like that, Tubbo was amazing, he didn't _want_ Tubbo dead, Tubbo was his best friend--

(Did he really not want Tubbo dead? But he was the one imagining it in the first place. Did he actually want it?)

_Imagine Wilbur! He fucking hates me, wouldn't miss me if I were dead. Why not just a little push? A little shove into the traffic? There would be blood, there would be broken bones, imagine the crushing sound. He hates me, why would I care about him? It would be so easy to say it was an accident. Just a friendly shove onto the shoulder, and I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. Any of it. I would be happier without him._

He hated himself. Gruesome images would wrap themselves around him, of gushing blood and chipped bones and spilling guts and--

_Dead, blank eyes staring towards the sky, limbs sprawled into a broken dance, blood pulsing from the wound--_

He was tired. He couldn't sleep because of it; and when he did, he would wake up with the feeling of terror and disgusting _satisfaction_ as he stared at his friends' corpses.

He felt sick.

How could he not?

They were all _friends_ , it was just a _game_ , there was no need to be upset about it. (But hadn't Tubbo laughed at him before? Hadn't Tubbo ignored him before? Hadn't Wilbur mocked him before? Hadn't Wilbur spoke to him, disgust in his voice, a dark look in his eyes?) 

(Was it really just a game?)

_There's a kitchen knife on the countertop.  
_ There's a kitchen knife on the countertop.

He wandered to the kitchen. The knife was exactly where his parents had left it, before they had left to go to a meeting. It was washed, gleaming in the lights, almost taunting him with it's pretty wooden handle. He gripped it tightly, hands wrapping around it easily, as if it was always meant to fit there.

_Drag it down the stomach, a red line, a sharp, burning pain--blood seeping out of the cut, muscle and fat splitting apart--  
_ Drag it down the stomach, a red line, a sharp, burning pain--blood seeping out of the cut, muscle and fat splitting apart--

Tommy took a shaky breath. The pain was mounting, his nerves were on fire, there were tears gathering in his eyes. A sob wrenched itself out of his throat as he unconsciously dug the knife a little deeper. Blood was dripping down his stomach, already drying as a dark trail of red.

His vision was starting to get blurred.

He couldn't tell if he was crying, or if he was dying already. It sure felt like it.  
(He hoped he was--dying.)

He fell to the ground with a sharp cry of pain as the wound exploded into a frenzy of pain. The knife clattered to the tile floor, narrowly missing his foot. It was stained with traces of red.

It was a mistake.  
(But he didn't try to move to the bandages he knew he had in his room.)

He covered the wound with a hand and opted to sit on the floor and wait it out.

(Whether it was for death or for healing, he didn't know.)

_Just a little longer.  
Just a little longer.  
Just a little longer._

(What was he wishing for?)

It hurt. A lot. Blood was still steadily pulsing out of the wound.

But he felt a dark and crushing _fulfillment_ flood himself.

(He _deserved_ this. He had wished it on others, _he_ had to suffer now. Wasn't that fair?)

He sobbed, holding himself close. (Because no one else would.)

And he chuckled, tears dripping down his face, blue eyes towards the ceiling. It burned.

He laughed, sitting on the ground. (Because no one else would find it funny.)

Was he bad? Was he _evil_?  
(Yes, he could practically hear them whisper into his ear. Yes, he was bad, he was evil.)

He was, wasn't he? Normal people wanted to help their friends, instead of killing them. Normal people walked on the crosswalk patiently, instead of rushing to get to the other side when cars were hurtling across the road, cackling as one barely grazed his ankles.

Normal people weren't _like_ him.

Was he a psychopath? There really was no other explanation, right? Who else had thoughts like this?

He kept laughing. Even when nothing was funny, he laughed, because he understood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gorey scene was very inaccurate, but I needed it to be a little dramatic, I guess... Definitely not one of my best, but I hope it turned out somewhat like you wanted it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade; social anxiety, self-harm and depression from a past toxic relationship.
> 
> Requested by: ._. and L anon.

The moment Techno wakes up, he hears the world scream at him.

Usually, it would be a low, chittering voice at the back of his head; something small, never-ending, yet loud enough to be able to be deciphered easily enough.

On good days; when he chuckled at the small jokes and there was a round of laughter around the dinner table, it dropped to a mumble; prodding at his mind, words hardly understandable.

He would be able to walk outside, taking a breath of fresh air--and not feel like there was someone at his back, gripping him tight. On good, quiet days, he could breath normally.

He would sit by the window, watching the sun go up, curled up in a pile of blankets, the utter peacefulness mending and shifting something that was long broken inside of him.

But--

On bad days, it shrieked at him; an echo of what the past; how it controlled him, how it could never leave him _alone._

(God, he wished that it could leave him alone just for even a _moment_.)

It chanted that he wasn't good enough. He was _never_ good enough; it said it so clearly, so easily; a simple stating of a fact. So confidentally that he looked down at himself, wondering if it was true. (It probably was.)

It chanted that he should give up. And he did, a long time ago, back when he was young and lost--he had given up his emotions, left only the confusion; the rage; the empty joy at another pointless touch and a string of soft, meaningless words.

Joy spreading through his veins like poison; something usually so sweet and pure, turned into a lethal toxin that ran through his body.

Touch so easily bruising his skin; leaving marks, imprinting his as their's.

Words that cut into flesh and carved fatigue in his bones.

It chanted that he was lonely--and yes, he was.

No matter how hard his family tried to understand--when they saw the aftermath that day, a mess of tears and _hate--disgust--anger--fear-_ -they would never know.

Never know how deep the roots went. How impossible it was to dig it all up.

They asked, one time, if he could just tell them--as if _it wasn't simply impossible to do so._ They always managed to make it sound so easy; so simple, to dig out his deepest secrets and regrets, reaching down and down and down and--

" _They don't understand,"_ the world cried. A plea for him to listen to it; to just float in the pool of loathing and terror.

(A whirling tangle of complicated emotions, with the sweet nectar lie of a promise to a better life. He almost wishes he could go back in time, back when the only path was forward, even it was a tightrope dangling over the empty void.)

They once asked why he wore long sleeves all the time.

They once asked why he sounded so dull, excitement and happiness barely making a difference in his tone.

They once _cared._

And the world screamed, _"_ _now they don't"._

(He sits down at that thought. It makes him stagger in his logic. He knows; he knows that he's a burden, that he can't _do it._ All the evidence points to one conclusion. He knows he shouldn't be in denial.)

_Alright,_ Techno thought, sitting up on the bed. _Today's going to be one of those days then_ _._

But oh no, it wasn't like those days.

It was so much worse.

He could feel the remaining touch on his flesh; a touch so toxic and poisonous he just wanted to _destroy--tear it--rip them off--cut--_

He ends up digging his long nails into his shoulders, where their hands used to touch. He drags them down, and with a morbid smile of _relief--pleased--disgust?--pride--_

Emotions are confusing. (He missed the feeling of nothing.)

He digs his fingers in and rips and shreds his skin apart because he can still feel them. He doesn't want them there.

He keeps going and going; goes on until there was a bloody mess on his shoulders; his neck, his wrists.

There's relief.

He can't feel anything there anymore.

But he wonders why he can still feel their presence, hovering over his shoulder, clinging to him like tar.

(He knows, deep inside, locked away in denial and worthless promises, that they're never truly going to disappear.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break--  
> This one is very very abstract because I can't really do anything else... Those kinds of chapters will probably come later!

**Author's Note:**

> I remember I've looked for fanfics. about recovery. For some reason, reading these things make me feel better; or worse. But it still helps, and that's what I'm here for.


End file.
